


And His Fatigues Were Made of Velvet

by bookstorequeer



Series: The Velveteen Soldier and the Prodigal Son [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychologists & Psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstorequeer/pseuds/bookstorequeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The violence that used to be in his veins has been replaced with the knowledge necessary to change the oil in his truck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And His Fatigues Were Made of Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to [emocezi](http://emocezi.livejournal.com/) for working on this with me.

He has flashbacks whenever he sees a man, a _boy_ in fatigues. At first he always attributes the tightness in his chest to chronic heartburn but Carwood never really seems to buy it. He tells his lover that it's nothing and they both play it off when later his sleep and Lipton's is broken by mortars falling on a forest that they all left behind in pieces. He tries to ignore it but it bothers him in some way that he's too proud to examine, that he can't support this new generation of soldiers. It's like his body has given up on war, his mind has given up on _him_. The violence that used to beat in his veins has been replaced with the knowledge necessary to change the oil in his truck and plane a two-by-four smooth enough for Carwood's hands. There are some things about Europe that he doesn't mind leaving behind but it bothers him when his hands start shaking while he's cleaning his gun and won't stop until Carwood stows it in their lockbox, away from prying fingers and wide eyes hungry for the stories behind his medals. It cracks something within him.

The next day, when Carwood is getting ready for an appointment with Dr. Rosen, he grabs his coat. Lipton doesn't say a thing and he wonders if he's rubbing off on the man. But the hand on his knee is warm as he drives and he forgets that there's anything strange about being able to read Carwood easier than his own face in the mirror.

He's only met Rosen briefly before when dropping off his partner on the way to denying the same need in himself, with the liberal application of beer and time in his woodshop, creating rather than killing. This time he gets a smile he can't return, a handshake he does, and an invitation to take the next empty slot in the good psychiatrist's schedule, after Carwood. He nearly sits on his hands to stop them from shaking and avoids looking at anyone else in the waiting room, resolutely _not_ wondering what rumours will come from seeing him in this waiting room with a 'PhD' on the door and a receptionist used to avoiding the eye of every crazy person who comes in for an hour at a time. He doesn't want to know what the young woman with bruises on her face would say if she knew what he'd done, or what the man with a tie and a briefcase would think about him loving Lipton.

He surprises himself by telling Rosen the truth behind the rumours. For once he finds the words to talk to someone other than Carwood and it scares him a little. The doctor just nods when he confesses that too and gives him things to do when his hands shake and he can't get enough air. He wonders how Lipton deals, if Rosen has offered similar hints and tricks for forgetting the smell of gunpowder and death in the air.

When they're together he can see the lines of stress around those warm, familiar eyes, still knows how to step between danger and breakable flesh without thinking. It's when they're apart that he's suddenly wondering about. It gnaws at him and his fingers slip on the steak he's cutting that night at home. For a long moment they both stare at the blood on the cutting board without moving.

"Damnit, Ron."

Calloused hands are rougher than he's used to and he finds himself reaching out before the edges of the bandage are fastened.

"Sorry," he whispers and the word doesn't stick in his throat like it usually does. Carwood's body is solid, warm, and as familiar as his own when he gets an arm around that waist. It's easier to breathe apologies against the curve of Lipton's shoulder, where it's safe to close his eyes.

"I know, I know," is the only response he gets but by a shake of that head and a squeeze of fingers still entangled, he knows he's forgiven for scaring his Lip. They've both discovered that blood washes off easier when there isn't any dirt or anger to grind it in. Carwood assures him that the steak tastes fine and later, when they're in bed and it's dark enough for him to ask, Lipton tells him that Dr. Rosen has suggested some of the same breathing techniques but mostly the doctor just listens to disjointed memories and jumbled dreams of technicolour war. He wants to tell Lipton that _he_ can listen but the look he gets means he isn't fooling anyone.

"Ron, you can't."

He shakes his head, safe in the dark. He's never wanted anyone there like he wants Lipton.

"But I do love you for wanting to."

He can't stop a smile against Lip's mouth. Maybe if they never stop sharing secrets like this, before they sleep or before they're really awake, then he can consent to telling someone who isn't his Carwood about the broken, threadbare wings that are still waiting to grow and how there is no where else better that they could take him but here, in the dark of 0300 hours with Carwood Lipton.

**End.**  



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